


GUNPOINT GONER

by johnnymarvel



Category: Gomer Pyle-USMC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 17:25:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19089670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnymarvel/pseuds/johnnymarvel
Summary: Gomer & Duke help a lady out with groceries, unwittingly stepping into a trap... when they go missing but Duke escapes, Sergeant Carter goes on a search in attempts to avoid any trouble with the marines, & to rid Gomer of the unfortunate situation.(Vanilla) NSFW near end.Violence present, not very extreme.





	GUNPOINT GONER

THE BEGINNING IS THE END:  
"Why did you want to kill that marine?"   
The interrogator's eyes brimmed with a concern that could have been forged; he tapped his pen against his mouth. All business. The woman looked him directly in the eye. She didn't even try to fake remorse. "We were bored," she said very simply, brushing long hair out of her face. "We were bored, & he looked like someone who'd be fun to fuck with."   
"So there was no ulterior motive? You were just... bored?"   
"Boredom is a very complicated word," she sighed, "Boredom in itself can be an amalgamation of ulterior motives. I don't know. Like I said. We were bored. He looked fun. Well, *they* looked fun. But the one had to fuck it up. "  
"What do you think would have happened if ██████?"  
She laughed. "Oh, I think we would have had a lot of fun." She nodded, her pupils entirely dilated. "We would've had a lot of fun. I think he could've helped us a lot. But the guy was a total fucking drag. We had to ████████ before he snitched us out. But." She made a vague gesture with her hands. "See how that ended up working out, huh? That's alright. I'll call it a note to our followers.  
"DON'T ██████."

PRECEDING THE INTERVIEW.

THE SUN SHONE BRIGHT IN THE PALE BLUE SKY, BEADING THE MARINES OF CAMP HENDERSON'S FOREHEADS WITH SWEAT FOR MILES. Water. Lots of water, the sergeants told their privates to drink, & then after lots, drink some more. Some vomited from the amount of damn water they had to drink, but this was paid no mind; hydration taking prevalence over all. Exempt from this was not at all Sergeant Carter's platoon, guzzling— but not chugging, lest they wish for more trouble— water as the stout fellow marched up & down their formation, barking orders. "Drink water! Drink water!" he yelled. "I wanna make sure none of you numbskulls so much as quiver with dehydration, do I make that clear? Today's a beautiful day—" Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Private Gomer Pyle lowering his canteen, & made a point of marching over to him, barking, "Pyle! Do you not hear me? Does a word of what I say not enter your thick skull? Drink, you knuckle-dragger, drink!" He sauntered then to Private Duke Slater, jabbing his chest. "You and Pyle are to run those ammo crates to the firing grounds," he demanded, pointing to a pile of at least ten ammo crates nearby. Neither Pyle nor Slater moved an inch. "Move it, move it! Move with a purpose!" Carter screamed; that definitely did the trick— Pyle & Slater took to the heels, grabbing an ammo crate each and half-jogging to the shabby dirt road leading to the firing grounds.  
Once out of Sergeant Carter's range, Slater put down the crate & sat on it, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "Jesus Christ, Gomer; it's a million degrees out here." He looked up at Pyle, squinting. "Ya think the Sarge got somethin' on us today? He was being a real ass during inspections, too." Pyle simply shrugged. "I dunno, Duke, but I don't think takin' a break's gonna do us much good if we gotta get all them crates to the firin' grounds. Why, what if the Sergeant comes drivin' by here in one ah' them Jeeps an' takes a smokin' outta us? I don't wanna be caught slackin' on the job or nothin'." Slater rolled his eyes but got up, reluctantly picking up the crate. "You're a real goody two-shoes, Gomer, ya know that? A real regular goody two-shoes. We got a whole ten ammo crates— that's five rounds. Five round trips we gotta make! I'm tellin' ya, he got it out for us today!" Gomer moped a little but the two marched on, sweating their ways through a good three of the five rounds with no complications besides annoyance & complaints (from Slater's side) until on round four, something arose—  
"Why, Duke, won'tcha look at that?" Pyle tugged at Slater's sleeve, pointing at a pink Studebaker not too far from the pair, smoking from the hood. "That poor person gotta overheated engine. You reckon we oughtta go help?" Slater jumped at the opportunity to slack, nodding eagerly. "Sure, sure, Gomer, why don't we go check it out?" The marines moseyed to the smoking automobile; Pyle knocked on the window and waved, smiling at the lady behind the steering wheel. "Howdy, missum. Looks like you got you an overheated engine; you need a hand?"   
"Oh, what a doll," she crooned, bustling out of the car. She held onto a lace-veiled fur hat as pink as the car, smiling back at Pyle. "I only live a mile or so away..." she pointed at a clump of grocery bags in the backseat of her car. "...I— I just got done grocery shopping, & I'd just hate for my things to get spoiled out here in this dreadful sun... would you boys mind helping me carry them home?" Her gaze rested briefly on the two abandoned ammo crates. "If— I'm not interrupting anything, of course."  
"Oh, no, oh no, ma'am," Slater quickly interjected, taking his cap off, wringing it between his hands. He grinned something smarmy at her and Gomer gasped, opening his mouth to say something before being silenced by a hand over his mouth. "We'd be honoured to help a lady in distress." He stepped on Pyle's foot. "Wouldn't we be, Gomer?" The grocery bags looked a lot lighter than the ammo crates, and the woman a lot more beautiful than Sergeant Carter. Pyle furrowed his brow, but his good nature won over, and he replied, "Yes, ma'am. We'd be happy to help, yes we would."  
"Such gentlemen," the woman sighed, opening the backseat doors and cueing to the bags. "Would you mind?"   
Slater jumped to the door on her side and Pyle took the long way to the other one; both leaned slightly into the vehicle to grab the bags, then leaped with surprise as they felt the cold hard slam of the car doors against their asses, sending them tumbling in in a heap. Pyle looked out the window & his eyes went wide as he was greeted by a gun outside the door, held by another woman who must've emerged from the bushes, covered in grass. The woman from before slid into the driver's seat, followed by the grass-woman, who held her gun trained on Pyle & Slater, the former of whom held his expression twisted in offense & horror, shaking his head. "What a mean thing to do, what a mean thing to do," he tsked, shaking his head while holding his hands in the air. Slater stared him down something awful mean but he ignored him, prattling on, "And we were just about to help this nice young lady get the groceries outta her car... what a mean thing to do. Ain't your momma never taught you foolin' people ain't nice?"  
"We knew some dumb servicemen like you would jump at the opportunity to help some pretty young lady such as myself with her groceries," said the driver, taking a drag from a pink Sobrani cigarette. She looked back at the two through the rear view mirror. HER EYES SPELLED DEATH. "Why, I woulda helped you if you was a pretty young lady or a ugly ol' man," Pyle retorted, garnering a jab from Slater. "Gomer," he whispered, "Don't matter what the hell you think, you ain't helping get us outta this situation." Pyle held his mouth but continued to pout, as he & Slader were bumped along some backwoods hick road to God-knows-where, held captive in a doggam pink Studebaker, of all the things to be held captive in. THEY REMEMBERED BREWING & BEING GENERALLY UNHAPPY, & SLIGHTLY AFRAID. THEY DIDN'T REMEMBER MUCH AFTER THAT, AS THEY WERE BOTH KNOCKED OUT WITH SOME BLUNT OBJECT UPON EXITING THE VEHICLE.   
They didn't even get the chance to witness their surroundings.   
SLADER WOKE UP FIRST.   
He looked around himself in a panic— unfamiliar walls. Unfamiliar floor. Unfamiliar ceiling. Unfamiliar interior. Cold. Cold. Desolate & dark, lit only by some overly-scented candles. What was this, the 1800s? He looked at Pyle next to him & gritted his teeth, exasperated to see he was still knocked out. /Of course he is,/ he thought to himself, staring down at his binds. Flimsy rope. A wooden chair. It seemed easy. It felt easy. /Too/ easy. He didn't care! If he wasn't gonna be killed by the mystery-women, he'd be murdered by Sergeant Carter himself, at least, he would be as soon as he explained the situation. Whatever he expected from the guy, it sure as hell wasn't sympathy. Adrenaline overshadowed rational thought & he bucked forward on the chair then tiptoed to one of the candles, relieved it was low enough he could put his back against it. He winced as the flame burned his flesh but gritted & held in any noise, preferring burn to gun. As soon as the rope on his wrists was burned through, he shook off his wrists in agony & blew out the flame wanting to spread through the rope. After a moment of self-pity, he turned his attention to Pyle, untying his ropes then freezing when he heard a noise. He slipped back into his chair & put his wrists behind his back, closing his eyes *just* far enough that they looked closed but permitted sight, watching as a pair of shoes crossed the floor. Marine shoes. Marine uniform. Very familiar. Some rage boiled in his gut as he realised the uniform was his, & the adrenaline again went to his head— he thrust his chair at the figure then made a mad, mad dash. Commotion. Lots of commotion. He heard a scream behind him (lucky shot! Good job Slater!) but kept running. He saw people in the house (?) staring at him in confusion then heard them standing to run after him, but he didn't stop, continuing to sprint as hard as his body would let him. Mad dash. Mad dash.   
He thrust himself through the front door without looking back & jumped into the nearest available car— to his luck, several outdated cars lie haphazardly parked about the yard, some clearly for scrap or parts, with missing headlights, doors, fenders, & / or more. Duke prayed this wasn't one of the scrap cars as he fumbled with the wires whilst keeping a sharp eye on the door. A spark. Another spark. God bless the old piece of shit; the engine roared to life but just too late; Slater finally screamed as a bullet tore through his flesh, nicking his shoulder. The car swerved out of the yard as he attempted to drive whilst clutching his shoulder, cussing like a sailor under his breath as he did so, veering onto the shitty road. /The highway. I gotta find the highway./ He knew the dirt road wouldn't do jack shit for him, especially when he heard cars on his trail & hit the gas, praying the car had enough energy to last to the highway, or at least, where there was friendlier civilisation.   
It barely did, & the other cars gave up pursuing him as he parked perpendicular to the road then got out & ran to the small town lying outside the forest the road snaked into, immediately visiting a telephone booth, dialing the number to Camp Henderson in a panic. "Hello? Hello!" He exclaimed. "This— yes, this is Private Duke Slater— could you please connect me to Sergeant Carter?" He nervously looked around. "Yes, thank you." He hummed nervously, looking for signs. YELLER ROAD. A broken stoplight swaddled in what looked like duct tape. "What the hell do you want, Slater?" Slater practically melted; never had he thought he'd be so relieved to hear Sergeant-fucking-Carter's voice. "H-Hey, Sarge— no, no... well, you see, uh... no, Sarge, I'm— I'm serious, Sarge. Me and Gomer ran into some real trouble doin' our ammo crate runs..."  
"Everybody runs into problems when they're doin' ammo crate runs. Holes in the road. Poor little old ladies who just /need/ five hours' help crossing the road. A little baby deer that they just /had/ to reunite with its mama. I've heard it all, Slader; you better have a damn good excuse."  
Slater's eyes widened like balloons about to pop when he saw one of the people from before emerging from the woods, looking around. "Look, Sarge, this is serious, real serious— Go, Gomer, he might be in serious trouble; now, I gotta go; I'm on Yeller Road... there's a broken stoplight; I'm not sure how close it is to Camp Henderson—"  
"Slater!!!" Sergeant Carter's yell was lost to the phone's wire as Slater hung up and dashed out of the phone booth, deer-hopping to an absolute stranger's house, banging on the door & hoping for the best. Yeller Road. He'd never heard of any Yeller Road, not even in his offtime. He felt guilty having had left Gomer behind, awful guilty, but knew that it would be futile to try to save him, especially in the state he was in. The blood didn't mesh very well with the beating sun, actually. Blood. Blood. Blood. Sun. Sun. Sun. DARK.

\---

"I'll kill them! I'll kill both of them! The numbskulls! The monkey nuts! The incompetents! The booze-for-brains! The two fucking Stooges!" Sergeant Carter paced feverish circles around the room as Boyle watched, half out of it from the heat. "You know how much shit I'm gonna get from headquarters for this if word of this gets out? I can see it now, Boyle— Sergeant Carter, 36 years old, 19 years of service, toured in Korea— dishonourably discharged because two of his nimwitted privates couldn't manage to drag ten stinkin' ammo crates to the firing grounds. Or maybe I'll get discharged for murder! Who knows!"   
"Sounds like you got a real dilemma, Vince," Boyle murmured, forcing his eyes to stay open as he propped his head on his desk in his hand, fanning himself. "Dilemma," Sergeant Carter repeated.   
"Yeah, you know, dilemma. Problem. Twist." He yawned. "Why don't you go look for those guys, huh? I'll take care of things on your end here while you're gone— say you had to go to the store or somethin'."   
Sergeant Carter grimaced. "You're an /angel,/ Boyle, a real stinkin' angel." In spite of his grievance at Boyle's indifference, he chose to comply with the plan— "But yeah, I think I'll do that; I think I'll do just that... get me an Atlas. I'm gonna find me a Yeller Road somewhere near Camp Henderson, California—   
—IF NOT ONLY SO I CAN WRING THEIR PATHETIC EXCUSES FOR NECKS."

\---

When Pyle came to, he found himself not in ropes as he had previously been with Slater, but in chains, in something of a garage. Two people sat on chairs nearby entirely slumped— not asleep, but mellowed out of their minds, a bad mix of coke & weed. Even unaware of their drug intake, Pyle knew better than to mess with them, for fear he'd again have a gun turned on him. & something he most definitely didn't want was a ring of bullets in his chest, oh, no. If he had a ring of bullets, he'd at least want to know they stood for /something./ Another person entered the room and flicked on the light, swaying down a small pair of stairs with a pipe in his hand. "The other guy went missin'," he slurred, taking a quick drag from the pipe. "Thought he was a badass. Got away with a gun in the shoulder, I heard."  
"Bullet in the shoulder," one of the people from the chair corrected, lifting a hand. "Motherfucker. We're gonna have to move."  
"We had a sweet pad going on here, too," said the other chair-person, grunting. She threw something at Pyle; it only narrowly missed his head. "Nothing is sacred." Pyle finally decided he wanted to say something, but all that came out was muffled grunts as he realised they'd gagged him. There was a small giggle shared among the three, before the person by the stairs spoke again, "Boss says we ain't movin' 'till the police show up, then we just run into the woods, see what happens. We celebrated a lil' too early, I think." Pyle attempted to talk again, wiggling determinedly against his chains & his gag. The stair-person laughed. "Freedom of speech, baby. Let the guy say what he wants to say."   
Groaning, one of the chair-people got up and ripped the tape off Pyle's mouth; he immediately started to ramble, "Why are you folks holdin' me here? If y'all want money I can give you it, but it'd be a mean, mean thing t'do... and speakin' of mean things, why, I—"   
"Shhhh," stair-person hushed him. "Money doesn't exist to us." He flashed a quick peace-sign. "We only want love. And peace, and fun. We're recruiting folks who we don't think gotta lotta love in 'em." He took a hit from his pipe. He looked twenty going on forty. "Consider this an act of kindness, soldier. You won't have another day of hardship in your life, ever." Pyle noticed he wore /his/ uniform, while he himself was stuck in his undershirt & boxers. Where outside the sun pelted anything that showed, the garage was freezing cold, & he wished he had his uniform back on. In fact, he wished he were back on the little road outside Camp Henderson, bringing ammo crates to the firing ground. Damn! "But I don't know none of you folks," Pyle drawled. "I just wanna get back to my sergeant so's I can finish my job, that's all I wanna do, honest. In fact, you lemme go, that's just what I'll do— an' I won't cause no trouble outta it, promise."  
The other chair-person, also in marine uniform, sat up, pointing to her face. It was bruised something ugly, & had some sad looking bandages plastered onto it. "You ain't goin' nowhere," she spat, pointing to her face. "Our way or the highway, baby; you see how your lil' buddy hooked me up?" There was something awful cruel to her words, lacing every word with poison. The stair-person laughed out-of-place & the person who'd untaped Pyle's mouth was preoccupied with playing with the tape, sticking it to random fingers.   
The stair-person offered Pyle his pipe with a crooked smile, tousling his hair. "Here, baby. You're gonna need it."

\---

"Thank God you showed up, Sarge."  
A cuckoo clock cuckoo'd above Slater on the wall as the old couple to whom the clock, & by extension, the house, belonged, rocked back & forth on their chairs, ignoring Slater & the Sergeant entirely. The floor was a cold faux oak & the walls tried too hard to be homely, reflecting that the house was a sad attempt at "modern" architecture by the couple during the '40s post-war housing project, who probably hadn't moved since then. Despite its several attempts at coziness, the house failed entirely, & felt void & bleak, even with the sun glaring through the window. Slater's arm had been bandaged up & treated, but it still garnered an odd look from the Sergeant as he sat across from the private. "I was scared as I could be, Sarge— those, those people that took us hostage back there followed me to this town, that's why I hung up so early, and all... I woulda called again but I, uh, I didn't wanna bother you, Sergeant."  
"Bother me?" Sergeant Carter barked incredulously, leaning forward as green eyes went wide. "Who says you're gonna bother me when two uh'my guys' necks are on the line? As your first line leader, it is my *responsibility* to get you numb-nuts' balls out of the grinder when situations like this arise, do you understand me?"  
Slater hung his head slightly. "I understand, Sarge; I just— well, this sounds kinda stupid now, but I didn't wanna get in trouble real bad, so I—"   
"Trouble? Trouble? — Damn right you're gonna be in trouble after this, Slater! I'm lucky the folks at wherever you were didn't kill you, because once I'm through with you, you're gonna be begging the devil himself for a one-way ticket to Hell so's you can get outta Camp Henderson! But—" His stare slightly softened; he wrung his hands. "—you gotta understand it's my responsibility to care for my men's safety, Slater; that's why I navigated all the ways out here, in my new car, no less." MORE WRINGING. "Where, uh— where's Pyle?"  
"He's still back there, Sarge. I didn't get the police 'cause I was afraid it'd, I was afraid it'd become a whole hostage situation or somethin' and Gomer'd get shot..."   
"That's /one/ smart thing I've heard outta you today, Slater; good job." Sergeant Carter got up from the faux leather brown chair he'd been sitting in & gave Slater a firm pat on his good shoulder. "You just, uh... you stay here for now, Slater; I'm gonna try to retrieve Pyle— if I ain't back in an hour then get the police, alright?"   
"Roger, Sarge," Slater responded. In a snap, Sergeant Carter was gone, disappeared into the woods, following the path from where Slater had perp-parked to the house. Once there, he hid outside a bush, watching with eagle eyes as some people randomly disappeared into & out of the building. When the path seemed clear enough, he crab-walked around the worn-down house to the back door, picking the lock then slipping in, wrinkling his nose at the stench of pot plants & other drugs. The floor was dirty & littered in glass as though someone had been snacking on it. He slid to hide behind some storage containers when he saw the shadow of a person. His hand hit something wet; his lip curled in disgust which was promptly replaced by terror as he looked at his hand to see blood staining it. All sorts of visions ran through his head— had they crucified Pyle?! Had they shot him? Had they stabbed him to death, or worse? He blocked the images out of his mind. Sure, he'd made a lot of cracks about hurting, even murdering, Pyle in the past, but to imagine such base threats actually being carried out haunted him beyond belief.   
A SOUL SO PURE, SO KIND, SO GENUINELY UNDERSTANDING THAT HE SIMPLY REFUSED TO EVER HATE & SHIT-TALK ON THE SERGEANT LIKE SO MANY OF THE OTHER MEN DID. A PERSON SO SANGUINE HE COULD TURN THE RAIN INTO SUNSHINE. WHO WOULD EVER WANT TO HURT, GENUINELY HURT, THAT? & FURTHERMORE, WHAT HAD EVER PROMPTED SUCH A PERSON TO JOIN THE MARINES IN THE FIRST PLACE??  
Now, Sergeant Carter had to vanquish both thoughts of harm /and/ good from his head, as he scaled his way through the house. Some coke-den. Coke seemed to be becoming the new /thing,/ apparently, after the LSD & magic mushroom craze from not much earlier. He hoped he wasn't ingesting it; the shit seemed to be littered all over the place as though it were /cheap./ He caught another semblance of human life and hid again, definitely not wanting to have to shoot— gunfire tended to freak people, especially high people, out a bit, and the last thing he wanted was a shootout or a hostage situation as he'd discussed with Slater. God, the house was big. He scaled the upstairs as well as he could and then the downstairs, then the basement, which was where he saw it— through the basement door leading into the garage, he saw the persons dressed in Slater & Pyle's uniforms. Bingo.   
As quietly as he could possibly force himself to be, he slipped through the door, then slipped his hand around the stair-person's neck, holding a gun to his temple. The lack of concern bothered him, but he held his ground, whispering, "Where's Pyle?" The man shrugged, making the world's weakest effort at escaping the sergeant's grasp. The other two people glared him down, but didn't move, presumably caring for their friend's life. He stroked the trigger of the pistol. "C'mon, you no-good beatniks; where the hell's the private, huh? You're bustin' my balls!"  
"We don't got him right now," the stair-person mumbled, sort of clawing at Sergeant Carter's arm. "Boss said she was gonna drive him out to the sunny place after we got done gettin' revenge on him."  
There was a nervous bout of giggles; the sergeant fake-grinned, but his eyes did everything but. "Come on, you bimbos, what'd you do to him, huh? I know damn well Pyle wouldn't hurt a fly!"  
"Oh, he wouldn't. & he didn't. We just messed with him some, that's all." Stair-person took a long drag from his pipe, swaying in place. "'Cause of his buddy."   
"But /he's/ going to the sunny place. He's gonna learn how to fly," one of the chair-persons interjected.   
There was a period of silence, and then a series of screams, as Sergeant Carter shot off three bullets, effectively shooting the stair-person's shoulder, chair person #1's shin, and chair person #2's foot, then ran for the hills before they could retaliate, holstering his pistol and fleeing from the garage, not caring about subtlety as he desperately searched every one of the cars in the yard's trunks then seats for Pyle, praying to God the "boss" hadn't yet left with him to the "sunny place," which he was certain wasn't good. His prayer came true, as he found Pyle in the trunk of a rusted out red car, staring at him with huge eyes. There was a noise, & Sergeant Carter without hesitation dove into the trunk, promptly shutting it behind him. "Hey, Sergeant," was all Pyle could manage to say, half-smiling at the sergeant with a badly bruised face. Carter dared himself to very carefully touch one of the bloody bruises, gulping when he got more blood on his hand. "Jesus Christ, Pyle, what'd they do to you?"   
"Just used me as a lil' bit of a batterin' ball, that's all. It was kinda fun, actually— like my own personal boxin' match, but I was the boxin' bag. Golly.... they wasn't real glad with me on account of my buddy Duke got one of 'em with a chair real bad, I think, Sergeant. And—"   
Pyle fell silent as there was a nearby noise & some mumble-chatter. Both sat in silence, staring at each other in the dark, musty trunk of the car, any light therein provided only through the thin crack of the hatch. Sergeant Carter leaned slowly forward with his head, scaling Pyle up with his eyes and moving very slowly as he placed a hand behind the man's head. Pyle slightly reciprocated the action, allowing Carter to come forward as he adjusted himself to let the sergeant hold him with ease. Carter came closer & closer, then weaned slowly into a kiss, this returned by Pyle as he placed one of his hands on the sergeant's cheek, the other on his shoulder, his grip tightening as Carter's kiss grew more intense, devolving into a full make-out, the both of them spurred by adrenaline from fear & the final relief from the rigid fronts they had to put up constantly in '60s society, adhering to a rigid mold so as not to be rejected entirely by their peers. They froze when there was a movement made on the trunk, ears keen & sharp as they listened— one of the people was complaining about the trunk being busted, & the chatter moved away, allowing Pyle & Carter to carry on, not able to do much but kiss desperately in the trunk of the rusted red car, knowing another moment such as this would be rare & hard to come by.   
In their antics, Carter kicked something, which set off the backseat, collapsing it forward. Wasting no time, Sergeant Carter crawled to the front seat & quickly hot-wired the car, kicking it into rumbling gear and driving off, unable to believe how well the situation had resolved itself.   
Neither him nor Pyle exchanged a word as he ushered the private into his own car then picked up Slater. The three informed the police of what had transpired & the house, apparently a nest for a branch of a drug cartel, was raided, everyone arrested that could be found, including the boss herself, in spite of her extreme belligerence against arrest & one million slanders against the marines.   
That evening Slater was relieved not to be reprimanded any more by Sergeant Carter, & went to bed promptly in his bunk.   
Pyle very quietly snuck to Carter's quarters, where he'd been invited—   
—Boyle had finally given up post & lie, slumped & sound asleep in his brown uniform, in his chair, snoring audibly. Pyle tiptoed past him, feeling unreal— the situation felt unreal. He felt unreal. The quarters felt unreal. It felt unreal as he kneeled on the floor & unbuckled the Sergeant's belt, then slowly undid his too-tight pants, typical of sergeants' attire. It felt unreal as he felt Sergeant Carter's hand in his hair, caressing it then gripping it. It felt unreal that he was still alive. But oh, he was grateful— he never thought he'd be grateful to his kidnappers, but oh, he was, as he caught his reflection in a small mirror & stared it down. DARK BROWN EYES. DARK BROWN EYES. DARK BROWN EYES & CREAM FLESH.  
A SINGULAR TEAR FELL, AS HE REMEMBERED THE YEAR, & KNEW THIS WOULD NEVER LAST.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my second ever fanfiction (of anything)... hopefully it's not awful; my writing's a little rusty. if you liked this check out my other one if you're a fan of rambo. :) (which i promise is a bit better than this one, at least in my opinion.)


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